Teach Me to Live
by Virodeil
Summary: Singing, laughing, smiling, hugging, crying: I never thought I was going to help teach a very, very powerful person this. I never expected I would be dumped into a totally new world anyway, for that matter.
1. Chapter 1

**Teach Me to Live**

Story Summary: Singing, laughing, smiling, hugging, crying: I never thought I was going to help teach a very, very powerful person this. I never expected I would be dumped into a totally new world too, for that matter.

Story Notes:  
Here is something that pokes fun at myself, at my country and nation, at the world and all its 'glory', at _The Inheritance Cycle_, at both universes in general, at the concept of a girl falling into a fantacy world,so please do not be offended by anything here. All is just for fun, folks!  
Here is also something that I have been trying to work at for more than two years, and I desperately hope that this is the last version, the last content-change, the last title-change that it is going through after more than 5 discards. It's driven me mad! To think that it looked so easy when I was scanning or reading works of similar nature done by other people…  
Seeing that I have precious little time to write this, that I write it in my precious little spare time, and that my spare time is usually hogged by myriad things not always including writing, the quality of this work may be sub-par compared to my other works. Since it is a tentative work too, there will be overabundance of wandering prose, overflow of unnecessary additions, and many other 'pleasant' things. If you mind it, especially on top of this fic being essentially a Mary-Sue-prone, mainstream fic and it poking fun to so many sensitive things and me being not a native speaker of English hence prone to odd mistakes, you might wish to decide to leave before it's too late.  
So… enjoy?

Dialogue marks:  
*_Bahasa Indonesia translated into English, but with grammatical and diction nuances left intact._*  
"English and its Alagaësian equivalent, since the books seem to imply that both are the same."

Chapter Rating: Mature  
Chapter Warnings: mature themes, sexual harassment

1.

*_…And then Liya asked for our arrival times to be next to each other. Thankfully the committee approved it,_* Rudi chatters on, still expounding on the huge, mysterious, one-in-a-lifetime holiday trip joining more than five educational institutions that is supposed to be held next month. Sadly, tonight I somehow feel too tired and sleepy to be just as excited as he is, though the trip was all that I could think for the whole day since I received the news from Heru this morning.

"Mmh," I mumble at the receiver slit on my loosely-held mobile phone. Meantime, I am also rubbing my eyes sluggishly, trying to stay awake a little longer, while searching for a comfier position under my blanket.

*_Are you still listening?_* Rudi protests, sounding just as fresh and excited as twenty minutes ago but now a little sulky.

"Mmh," I mumble again. He huffs across the line. I snort listlessly to that, then yawn widely, noisily. Let him get the hint please… oh please please please…

*_Just go to sleep, then. See you on Sunday,_* he grumbles at last: giving up, disappointed, irritated. The next moment, he closes the line without further ado.

I sigh. _At last_.

The mobile phone clatters onto my desk at the bedside, right on top of my closed laptop. It hurts a little, being cut off like so, but I have indeed expected such a reaction in the wake of any disappointment or irritation that he is feeling, having been his friend for years. The heavy sleepiness that has been clinging on to me these past minutes works wonders in numbing and sweeping it away too.

Well, there is nothing else to do now, at any rate. Nothing and nobody is barring me from plunging into the dreamland at last, since thankfully I had the foresight to send Joyce into Ika's care for the night an hour ago, and the mobile phone has just bipped its low-battery alarm. Bliss…

The air conditioner drones on softly, occasionally sending whispers of cool air to the side of my unprotected face. Outside, the world is silent, peaceful, as rarely happens in this small three-story shop building turned special school for the diffable turned internal boarding home. The tiny two-times-two-metre room allotted to my own use in this cramp space of a multifunction home somehow no longer feels so small, so confining. My bed, as narrow and full of inanimate inhabitants as it is, feels even more comfier than the usual, and the soft, fluffy quilt Rudi gifted me for my birthday two years ago perfects it beautifully.

I yawn again, curl up even tighter round one of my three boulsters, then let the heaviness that has been ladening my head this past hour take me away.

So nice, so peaceful, so silent, so comfy, so perfect…

I stand dithering on my bare feet in what feels like a very, very open space populated with high, prickling, tickling grass. The cold, gently-blowing breeze brings the scent of damp grass and soil into my nostrils, while numbing my cheeks and the nearly-nonexistent tip of my nose. I shiver from the chill, but never think of moving or talking. For one, the reality feels so surreal, dreamlike.

Well, I am indeed dreaming, am I not?

But for a dream, it feels so real, _too_ real. Things that feel like broken grass-stalks, sharp tiny pebbles and little chunks of cold, hardened soil stab mercilessly at the bare sole of my feet, while the dry, waving grass-blades tickle at my bare calves and against my thin, short pyjamas. And now I realise: my eyesight is not back to before I went totally blind either, unlike in my other dreams.

That sends irrational terror into every particle of my being .

And with that, exacerbated by the thumps of heavy footsteps rapidly closing in to me from every direction, the peace shatters irrevocably.

Where am I? Where should I go now? Why does everything turn freaky all of a sudden?

But I _must_ go. Whomever those marching feet belong to, I–

"Woohoo! A girl!"

A man's voice crows gleefully, whistles playfully, then grabs my arm hard before I can put a first step to any direction, just as the odor of a dirty, long-unwashed male hits my nostrils. I let out a shriek: startled, frightened, feeling cornered. Neither trying to yank my arm back nor kicking the grabber meet with success, however. He just yanks me closer to him, sniggering, and fondles my left breast.

"You're a feisty one, aren't you?" he croons close to my right ear. I gag. The smell of his breath is somehow worse than that of his body: humid, decaying meat mixed with stale alcohol of some kind.

"Let me go," I choke out, after coughing several times to try to get rid of the taste of bile in my throat. "I wasn't doing anything!" The fear is not lessened at all by the stomping, hooting arrival of what sound and smell like several other unwashed men. It is instead heightened considerably, though a second ago I thought I was getting the fright of my life, especially when they lose no time groping all parts of my body that they can reach.

"Well, you're here, and that's all that matters," the one that is still clutching my arm laughs. "Now, boys, we won't leave empty-handed, after all. But I think the Commander's got first dib on her."

"Spoilsport!" jeers one of the newcomer, who is now snaking one large, rough, oily hand down the back of my pyjama shirt, choking me by the forced stretching of the thin garment and freaking me out with a totally-unwelcome hand touching my bare skin.

"You wanna explain to him why you've taken the lute first eh, Geille? Never knew you've got such huge iron balls!" sniggers my captor.

By now, tears are drowning my eyeballs and scorching my tightly-closed eyelids, as my heart shrivels hearing their lewd words about me and the subsequent braying laughter that brands me as cheap entertainment. But I am determined _not_ to give them any more satisfaction by crying. It is far harder to control my breaths so as not to come out as sobs however, so I choose to focus all my remaining strength and sanity on that. Everything else is far beyond my control, let alone my comfort zone, so I am doing my damnedest to achieve at least this sliver of control.

All the same, how have I gone from teacher and translater and caretaker to a _plaything_? I was _sleeping_, for God's sake! I _refuse_ to be a plaything for _anybody_!

That thought fuels the fear, the determination, the hysteria, the desperation, the indignation, which mix up finely and explode into furious, uncontrolled, mindless thrashing.

But sadly, all the spluttered curses, the scratches, the head-butts, the knee-jabs, the kicks and the elbow-jabs are more than matched by the band of malodorous men. Breast-squeezes, butt-squeezes, rough-groping, slaps, punches, kicks, hair-yanks, arm-yanks and cheek-pinches answer me eagerly. My inevitable shrieks and screams echo hollowly in the chilly air, with the men's shouts and hoots and laughter as the hair-rising background. Inwardly, I wail my confusion, terror and pain to nobody, not knowing whom to blame for this scary not-quite-a-dream. My constant movement and fear make the bitingly-cold air feel almost tolerable, but I would rather shiver with cold than with fright, especially now that the men are picking up their pace, headed towards what must be their laire. I dare not think what will come next after we have arrived there, _absolutely_ not.


	2. Chapter 2

**Teach Me to Live**

Chapter Rating: PG-15  
Chapter Warnings: Mature Themes, Mild Violence, Odd Concepts

2.

It has not been more than half an hour since this nightmare began, I dare say, but I already yearn badly for the soothing relief of oblivion. Unfortunately, though I have willed myself with desperate strength to return to my own body and wake up in my own bed, fuelled by all the feelings of fear and wretchedness, I am still here, and in worse condition than before.

How not? I am forcefully stood upright with arms at either side despite all the bruises and scrapes and cold air, with my pyjama shirt and shorts half torn and my hair mussed and my breasts protected by neither the shirt nor my arms, acutely aware that across the tent in front of me a man – the Commander, in fact – is maybe seated staring at me, or at my breasts. I have moved to being the plaything of a gang of men to the plaything of one single powerful man.

I have 'escaped' all those starving two-legged hyenas with 'fragrant' aromas, only to end up in this not-so-large tent with the Commander who seems to enjoy torturing me with silent stare-raping. Nobody seems to dare stay close to the tent either, since it sounds so silent outside, unlike before he somehow caused me to follow in here without touching me, so there is no hope whatsoever to be rescued.

I wish somebody saved me. Better, I wish I were not here at all. Maybe, if I wer somebody powerful, or sighted at least, I would be able to break free.

But then, where would I go? I do not even know where I am! I may be on the other side of the planet, in another timeline, or in another world entirely.

Huh… too much SciFi and fantacy stories in my head…

The wild fretful imagination is not helped at all by the fact that I often imagine myself in another universe, especially in the universe of _The Harry Potter Series_, _The Arda Legendarium_ or _The Inheritance Cycle Series_. It is further exacerbated by the fact that lately I have been heavily embroiled in writing and reading fanfictions about _The Inheritance Cycle_, especially the odd and unique ones.

Maybe, maybe, I am in Alagaësia?

I shiver, but not so much from the cold now. That is a scary thought to be had.

Can I ask, though? Dare I? The Commander seems a milder man than his thugs. But dare I chance it if he turns out the scarier man, just quieter? After all, many real villains are the quiet ones or even the smiling ones.

Well, I have never been known as a patient girl, even when I was a toddler. So: "Who are you?"

Damn. It comes out squeaky and wavering.

Silence.

Hey, where is that man? Have I just been imagining him here and staring at me?

Still more silence. I cannot stand it any longer! I _need_ to know. Thoughts about landing in Alagaësia are beginning to freak me out, while I cannot afford to lose control again.

Clench hands with thumbs stuck inside, pray desperately for protection to God, ask: "Where am I?"

Double damn. My voice still sounds like a mouse pleading not to be eaten to a cat.

And still, for all the hassle, silence greets me.

Hysteria is creaping up once more from the depths of my chest. I am almost naked, cold, aching all over, confused, frantic to escape to my own reality–

"Answer me, _please_! Where am I?" I plead at last, with tears clogging my throat and lading my tightly-shut eyes. If I am in Alagaësia–!

It is as if something is exploding out from the depths of my body, wanting to tear me out, reaching out as much as it can. My hair stands on end; dizziness grabs me in a sudden jerk. I _yearn_ to be away, to get free, to be clothed properly, to wake up in my own tiny room in my packed, noisy, rented house that is the pride and point of vexation of mine.

But still, I am here: forcefully stood upright, barely clothed from the waist above, clutched mercilessly in the grip of a huge, strong-seeming, angry-seeming, or maybe eager-seeming man.

I want to scream. I want to scream to the world – or maybe to this man at first–

But before I can even open my mouth, something that sounds like a rather light wooden furniture crieks from across the apparently-not-so-large room. A second after, something that feels like a hand yanks the remaining bits of my shirt-front.

Chill electrocutes every cell of my being. I gasp, choke, but nothing audible escapes my lips though my lips opens and closes frantically like a stranded fish. _Far_ above my head, what sounds like a man draw heavy breaths.

If I could take a step back, I would; but I cannot even move my hands to release myself from whatever yanking the torn rags that I call my pyjama top. It does not prevent me from struggling, still, turning even more frantic than ever. Fear and hysteria mix with desperation and shame, boiling dangerously close to the top, threatening to explode–

A harsh slap stops me dead.

_He_ slaps me!

He _slaps_ me!

He slaps _me_!

Everything in me freezes up, blanks out, turns numb.

Distantly, I can feel and hear and smell it as a huge, solid, not-so-fragrant male body crashes into me. A strong, oily, thick-haired, not-so-fragrant head thumps painfully against my own a split second later, rubbing against my chill-numbed skin as it slides down from the point of impact, and a choked male voice lets out an oddly-high-pitched small, short wail from the vicinity of my chest where the head has just slipped down against.

It all feels so far, far away: tangible, audible, smellable but distant. It is as if I am floating in the sky among fluffy clouds that do not feel cold at all, as well as gliding in a dark, silent, still-aired tunnel.

At length, as the head resting heavily against my chest, the only part of the unknown possibly-human being that is attached to me in any sense of the word, moves a little, I begin to be slowly reacquainted with the reality, emerging from the emptiness of shock like a timid animal.

The feeling of a harsh, hot sting on my left cheek is the first thing that reregisters in my brain. It reminds me about what has just happened. And with that, comes the attached recollection in a numb realisation: _He_ slapped me!

A _man_ slapped me, and I could do nothing about it, just like I could do nothing to his thugs, because I was _weak_, a _woman_–

He _slapped_ me! Such an ungentlemenly thing: a man slapping a _blind_ woman, without any cause at that. And then he has the insulting temerity to put his head on my barely-covered chest, in-between my barely-covered–

Huh? Where are all the aches and pains gone to? Even my cheek no longer hurts, while it stung horribly _just now_! I–

Something flutters almost imperceptibly on my left cheek, the one slapped before. It feels like some kind of cloth-edge, or maybe a gloved finger. A soft, short mewling whimper emits from the head rested on my chest, as what feels like a bent long-sleeved arm brushes my left shoulder very, very lightly.

My _left_ shoulder.

Something on my _left_ cheek.

He has the gaul to touch my cheek after slapping it!

Anger rises slowly but surely from deep in my chest, pushing shock and fear away, stemming from the shame of being debased in such a manner.

All invisible restraints dicipate from all over my body like sliding water, whether by my will or his or even by chance. But all that I care about now are the anger, the feeling of being trodden while brought low, the devensiveness of a cornered woman–

I raise my hands, with the firm intention to shove him away, preferably till he is sprawled with no dignity intact on the floor.

But I never get to do it.

He lets out a barely-audible squeak. Then, judging from all the initial thumping-on-packed-earth sound and the hasty rustling and dragging noises that follow right afterwards, I can securely bet that he is scrambling away, possibly on all fours, as fast as he can manage it.

Vindictiveness scorches me from head to toe like hot water from a showerhead: uncomfortable but oddly exhilarating. Without even half of the attempt that I was going to put on, my aim has been achieved.

I step forward a little, luxuriating in the ability to move freely again while at the same time cringing inwardly at the icky feeling of my bare soles touching the slightly-gritty, slightly-uneven packed earth. And, I admit even though only to myself, I wish to check if he fears something of me, and maybe chase him away with that knowledge as a weapon if possible.

Two or perhaps three metres in front of me, the scrambling noises that have just stopped suddenly break out again, more frantically than before and accompanied by soft, little odd sounds, and at last stop at the distance where I heard the crieking of that wooden furniture that heralded his first interaction with me, though more to my right than in that instance.

A cold, slimy feeling drenches my insides from head to toe. I feel so _unclean_.

I step back to where I was stood up forcefully, but now with all my will. Now, nothing – no restraints – prevents me from sliding down against the taut canvas wall of the tent and seat myself on the dirt, hugging my legs.

I care nothing of being feared, and it seems that he now, inexplicably, unbelievably, really fears me.

Mami and Erwin often mock me for being not vengeful enough to those who scorn, wrong or ridicule me. But I simply never found enough energy to continually hate somebody, and found it both easier and better for my sanity to forget the offence, if not forgiving it.

And just like the other occurances, my vengeful feeling on this unknown, peculiar man has just died a quick, sudden death.

Outside and at some distance to my left, a commotion seems to be starting up. But inside here, neither of us seem to be at all motivated – let alone eager – to restart our interaction, or continue it for that matter. It seems a little silly in my head: everything is; but I do not even have the mental reflex to snort or laugh at it.

I just want to go home.

The commotion sounds to be getting closer to where I am – where we are – instead of dying down or getting farther away. It sparks a little of my jaded interest as I idly play with my toes, but does not motivate me to move or otherwise speak to the man – the Commander? – to head up possible problems about him having a nearly-naked girl in what might be his tent.

I just want to go home.

I am sick of everything that has happened to me since I 'woke up' standing in that field of tall dry grass. I just want to go home.

Helplessness weakens my muscles and bones. Tears once more well up behind my tightly-shut eyelids: tears of self pity and tired longing.

The commotion is getting closer still, and by now I begin to hear distinct words in some of the shouts from all the cacophony of noises, though I can yet discern neither the subject matter nor the thread of what could generously, generically, barbarically termed as "conversation."

"She's a whore! The Lord won't mind it, will he."

"He's _Morzan_! You think he'll mind? He's probably had far better whores than she is at court."

"I never heard Morzan being stingy to his troops, so quit it and let me pass!"

"I want her first! I got her first!"

"Bah! Why don't we borrow the tent for that?"

Harsh laughters, lewd snickers, loud boos and testosterone-filled yells interject, overlap, sprinkle and sharpen all the shouted remarks and arguments.

It all heightens my fear and desperation to their previous 'glory' as well, by default.

Silent tears creep down my numb cheeks at last, as my muscles shake with weakness and a deep, desperate fear.

Of all the nightmares to be in, of all the worlds to be landed in, of all the situation to be trapped in, of all the men to be helplessly, completely under the mercy of…

The commotion arrives right outside the tent, I note numbly.

Somebody knocks at one of the tent poles that must make up the doorway. The said someone comes in without permission after three more unanswered knocks.

Then, all hell breaks lose, at least in my opinion.


	3. Chapter 3

**Teach Me to Live**

Chapter Rating: PG-13  
Chapter Warnings: Brief Moderate Violence, Odd Concepts, Odd Behaviour

Author's Notes: Something I forgot to put in the beginning, and one that I feel too lazy to update attached to the first chapter: I'm not a native speaker of English here, so things and oddities are bound to happen despite my arrogance of claiming some fluency. I can only say sorry to any mishaps, and hope that you would be so kind to correct me.

Chapter Notes: Odd behaviours and thoughts abound, people. Will be explained slowly but surely in the next chapters.

3.

A gleeful, testosterone-filled whoop rings in the brief, tense, awkward silence. A split second later a hand grabs my hair roughly and yanks it up, eliciting a reflexive scream from me, while a heavy male voice cackles and crows, "Nobody here! We can–"

The delighted yell ends up abruptly with a startled, pained shriek surprising for such a heavy voice. At the same time, something warm and wet and smelling faintly metallic sprays me from head to chest.

I gag, choke, gag again. _Blood_!

I jerk away reflexively, shaking all over and choking on my own bile.

_Blood!_ Blood blood blood blood _blood!_ Blood on _my person_!

Something is still stuck in my hair, it feels, now dragging it downward somehow. I shake my head frantically even as my limbs move almost on their own accord, crawling crablike away from where the man is now yowling and backing away hastily into what sound like his baffled and panicked cohorts.

The thing is dislodged after a short while, with a not-so-light small flopping sound onto the likely-blood-bathed dirt.

_Flesh_-flopping sound.

I gag again. The thing must be a–

No no no no no no _no_! May _not_ think on it, or I shall go mad. _No!_

Nowhere to flee anymore now: I am already curled up in what feels like a corner between two tent walls, with the blood on my hair and face and shoulders and upper arms and chest and back now smellier and cold and clammy and tacky and–

I gag again.

The commotion starts once more right outside of the tent; but at least it is _outside_.

My head feels dizzy, so dizzy. The sharp, cloying, overwhelming, nausea-inducing smell of blood that permeates my immediate surrounding does not allow me any reprieve, as my stomach does its best to empty itself every few seconds. I got nothing but chest and stomach cramps, not even the regurgitation of stomach fluids for all the unwilling efforts.

I must have blacked out at some point quite unknowingly, because the next thing that I am aware of is that the odor of fresh blood is no longer in my vicinity. Afterwards, I begin to notice something… odd, though not quite unpleasant: From the waist above, I am garbed in a thick, heavy, warm, oversized long-sleeved garment that smells a little bit more tolerable than a working man's odor, and I can no longer feel any blood on my skin or in my hair.

In fact, my body from the waist up feels rather clean, like when I first arrived in this too-real nightmare, seeing that I had taken a quick shower before going to bed.

I shift uneasily. It feels almost pleasant, yes, but _wrong_. Now I also notice that I am no longer huddled on the corner, instead seated sprawled wedged in-between a not-so-sturdy table-leg and the side of an equally-ricketty straight-back chair.

And somewhere not so far in front of me, something or somebody seems to be looming, all silent and unmoving.

Come to think of it again, the outside sounds as eerily silent as before the commotion started in that faraway place…

And come to think of it again, given my new state of cleanliness and the used, unknown garment thrust on to me without my knowledge, let alone my permission, I was… I was…

I snatch my outstretched legs away to myself, and curl up tightly with folded legs and arms, with eyes uselessly wide open.

I was _naked_ and _cleaned_ by a _stranger_! Maybe a man at that…

Maybe _the_ man.

I shiver, feeling very, very _violated_.

But the garment wrapping my upper body quite loosely…

It must be _his_.

_His_ shirt, maybe newly-worn by _him_, touching _me_ intimately _now_ that I am practically folded triple.

I am _very_, very tempted to rip it away, screw all caution and decency and norms and protection from the cold.

But then, _he_ would see me _naked_ from the waist above, _again_.

But–

The 'something' positioned at some distance in front of me _stirs_. I flinch. So it is a _person_ after all, maybe _the man_. All this time, He–!

He…

No, no, no. With how forward and bold he has been with me and my body so far, I cannot afford antagonising him further more, not any longer too for that matter. A change of approach, as unpalatable as it is. Better unpalatable simpering than rape and death, right? I wish I were braver, I wish I were sighted, I wish I were stronger, I wish I were back in my bed, but wishes seem not to avail me any here. The only thing to do is to try to know the man and maybe seek protection from him, or truce, hopefully not servitude, but even if servitude can guarantee me safety from harm…?

So, asking rather than accusing, first?

"Why?"

My voice sounds hard but wavering, brittle, even to myself. My hands shake, but either from fury or fear I do not know myself. But I cannot help it all.

Something ghosts over my wrist, then touches a little harder on my sleeve-covered lower arm centimetres away from it. At the same time, a soft, short, nearly-indistinct hum of a deep-but-clear male voice comes from the direction of where the man must have been sitting or squatting or whatever, perhaps looking at me too.

The mixture of sound and touches seems to be meant as the answer; but what kind of an _answer_ is that?! I have no clue _at all_ of what he wishes to say by it! Can he not just _say_ what he wishes to say? He seemed to have no problem telling his minions to leave us be, before coming into this tent. Why being tongue-tied now? It does not match his forwardness and boldness too!

Well, if he is not going to speak, I shall.

"What do you mean by that? I don't understand."

Ha. Surprising. My voice does not waver so much. My hands are still shaking out of control, but at least I do not feel so… stormy, not any longer.

Was this what he meant by all those? To calm me down by one way or the other? But _how_ could he do that, by _only_ those little, inconsequential, unrelated things?

Magic?

After all, those ruffians bandied the name "Morzan" here and there before the lot of them stormed unsuccessfully into the tent.

And that particular ruffian who yanked my hair, he yelped in pain and… and… and _that_ happened to him and me with the assailant nowhere near, neither by sound nor by feeling.

Magic.

Morzan equals Dragon Rider.

Dragon Rider equals magic; or so _The Inheritance Cycle_ always claims.

Morzan…

Was I dragged to wherever this is by magic then? Was it Morzan's doing? But for what purpose?

Do I really know that it is _really_ Morzan? Then again, is Morzan the person really as monstrous and clearly villainous as the books claim he is? After all, Adolf Hitler and a handful of other "real-life villains" behaved _much_ more villainous than Galbatorix, and Galbatorix is supposed to be _the boss_ of Morzan and twelve other monsters.

Now, the question is: Dare I ask?

I open my mouth, but quickly close it again.

No, I dare not, sadly.

We lapse into a long, uncomfortable silence. It would look quite ridiculous, I imagine, if I were a third party looking in at this standoff: me curled up on one corner and him curled up on another corner, staring mutely at each other, with him so much larger and stronger and fiercer than I am. But not even the faint amusement at that mental picture manages to stir me out of the lock we are finding ourselves in.

Well, I admit, one of the reasons is because I am finding myself a new problem, namely the deep chill that is reintroduced to my – sarcastically, 'uppitily' and somewhat jokingly speaking – "3M," namely membranes, muscles and marrows. The lessening of the mental storm does have some negative effect, apparently, one that is nearly as unwelcome as the maelstrom of emotions itself.

Worse, not even a mental diatribe against little old me works in distracting myself, hence distracting me from the chill. My fingers and toes are practically iced over, it feels, and my limbs are quickly following on the sharply-downsloping route.

Should the difference be this extreme, though? Have I been this good in distracting myself? I somehow doubt it, or I would have been able to sit in the church without fidgeting or tinkering with my hands so much when the speech of the priest was boring.

"Did you…?" I trail off, too afraid to continue.

No, no, too prideful, somehow, now I realise. I was never this dependent to a stranger, nor this wildly hysterical and frightfully skittish and generally overreacting, and he has been witnessing it _all_. It is exacerbated by the fact that he blatantly harmed me only once, and he seemed to have apologised right away for that too if indeed he prefers to communicate by gestures and sounds with me like just now, with how he put his head on my chest and touched the part that he had slapped so softly.

He got me clean when the scent and feel of the blood freaked me out, regardless of how he did it and what his other purpose might be. He clothed me with his own shirt, as icky and freaky as that sound, when the state of my nearly-nonexistent pyjama top was the main source of discomfort and chill. And now, I guessed and have just realised that maybe, maybe, he did some magic to warm me up all this time, relenting just when his store of energy flagged.

And now, I may have to thank him.

I open my mouth, close, open my mouth again, close it, gulp, and gulp again.

It is _hard_.

Thanking somebody and saying sorry to somebody are some of the hardest things to do in my life when they truly matter, not like when I accidentally bump a friend in my haste on the nearly-nonexistent corridors in-between classrooms-turned-bedrooms and bedrooms-turned-classrooms at the place where I teach, not like when a student makes me a cup of were two of the few things that survived the changes when my puberty hit, quite unfortunate really, and now I am finding how unfortunate it is.

I open my mouth _again_, try to do my best pushing the words out.

But I only manage to let out the word "I." The rest are swallowed back, as, from the same distance in front of me, a soft happy mewl sounds.

I sigh.

"Can't you speak?" I implore. "I distinctly remember that you could speak."

No answer.

But I may _not_ use the distraction as the excuse not to thank him, not if I still wish to retain some semblance of pride in myself.

"Thank you, if indeed you were the one who took care of me."

At _last_, though I can barely hear the words myself. _Un_satisfactory. I had better–

Another soft happy mewl, but closer this time, accompanied by clothe-rustling. Soon after, what feels like his fringe-covered brow touches the back of my numb hand.

I sigh again.

He is truly _weird_!

"Can't you just say what you want to say?" I plead plaintively. He _slapped_ me, and now he behaves like a spoiled _kitten_!

No answer, _again_, not even a gestural answer. He is looking more and more like one of the multiple-handicapped children at the school, whom I usually avoid being the teacher of for lack of bubbly patience. But would it not be ridiculous should I treat him like one?

Well, if I wish for some answer as soon as possible…

"What's your name?" I mumble, somehow feeling dispirited, as I shift the back of my hand away gingerly from the hair-covered hard surface that is still attached to it. Having him docile instead of violent is very, very relieving, I have got to admit that, but having a grown man behaving like an autistic, down-syndrome, partially-mute boy is somehow disappointing on its own, though I cannot explain why even to myself.

I never expect an answer. But he does, startling me into a lag of comprehension, as my ghosting fingers manage to ascertain that it is indeed a fringe-covered forehead – a wide, stern one at that – that was pressed against the back of my hand.

"Orri." A weak murmur, lacking on any inflection, with a pronounced 'r' sound that is odd attached to the English-sounding environment to my ears, and spoken by the same deep-but-clear male voice that reminds me a little bit of Rudi.

My fingers freeze, then try to do a 'tactical retreat'.

They fail. The side of his head half attached to it follows as if glued. Better stay put then, than risking his head ending up rested on my folded-up knees.

Does it mean that I can chance another question now? That he will answer it too? But which question? There are so many of them!

But perhaps, one about the name bandied up by all those thuggish, malodorous men…? Just to confirm his identity?

What shall I do if he is indeed whom those ruffians were claiming him to be, though? Fight him? Flee him? Try to cosy up to him? Try to make him an angel? Hah!

But I have got to admit, It is nice to at least know whom I am dealing with, if I cannot do anything else as a follow-up of that knowledge. So… "The men spoke about someone named Morzan, I heard them briefly. Do people usually know you by the name Morzan?"

Sadly, no answer is forthcoming, even after a long while. The head now supported heavily by my fingers does not move further to either direction too.

"I just want to know," I implore, in the end, in a mumble, somehow afraid of angering him. I am never one to stay put in one position or activity for long, anyway, and thus this waiting game tortures me.

Finally, I receive a response, though far from my expectation and delivered in a broken, desolate whisper that now completely shatters the last of the image of him I firstly hold: that of a huge-bodied, powerful, callous, fierce man who likes to torture innocent men and rape women and girls for the 'fun' of it.

"And if Orri says yes?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Teach Me to Live**

Dialogue marks:  
*_Bahasa Indonesia translated into English, but with grammatical and diction nuances left intact._*  
"English and its Alagaësian equivalent, since the books seem to imply that both are the same."

Chapter Rating: PG  
Chapter Warnings: Mild Violence, Odd Behaviours, Odd Concepts

Chapter Notes: One footnote on the bottom of the chapter. Odd behaviours still abound. But hopefully, after three rewrites for this chapter alone, it has turned out all right at last.

4.

"And if Orri says yes?"

The sentence hangs heavily in the air between us: haunting, taunting.

If he says yes…?

If he is indeed _Morzan_?

What am I going to do if he is indeed _Morzan_? What _can_ I do?

Is this place _Alagaësia_, then?

What am I going to do if he is _Morzan_ and I am LEFT ALONE WITH HIM in _Alagaësia_, without the way to come back home to Indonesia, to my _family_? Papi, Mami, Erwin, my little Joyce…

Helplessness and fear invade me again. My insides freeze, following my outsides.

The head glued to my fingers JERKS, pushes forward roughly till it rests on my chest, and KEEPS pushING forward till I am thrown back slightly, BEFORE HE STARTS BANGING IT ON MY SHOULDERBONES, as if he were a maddened bull trying to gore me with its horn, as if he were a child wishing to retaliate against a wrongdoing. Hysterical laughter bubbles up slowly but surely from the same direction, ending up sounding like wild, pained yelps, and the body now pinning my legs uncomfortably against my front shakes violently in time with the scary not-quite-like-laughter.

My hair stands on end.

But indeed, Book Three of the series did say that _Morzan_ laughed as if in pain, right? I did not know that he could be this wild in expressing it, though.

Being proven right does not give me _any_ comfort now, still. The book underestimated how it would feel to _hear_ and _feel_ that laughter!

But _Morzan_.

That means I am in _Alagaësia_.

That means that _Morzan_ is now clutching my shirt – no, the shirt I am wearing – in a death-grip and trying to both flatten me and make a hole on my chest with a not-quite bearhug and repeated head-butting, and I cannot escape, because I am in _Alagaësia_.

One of the _Forsworn Riders_, the _vilest_, _most-dangerous_ of the bunch in fact according to the _whole_ series of four _thick_ books, practically glued to my person, and the vilest thing that he has done to me to date was to slap me, to which he apologised quickly in his own unimitable way. Even if I cannot go back home…?

A few smelly, oily strands of hair not of my own blow up to my nose, tickling my nostrils, as my breath escapes in a whoosh on a particularly-violent head-butt.

"Ow – brat! That hurts, you know," I squawk, spontaneously, once I regain my breath, as my arms automatically try to pin his head in place to avoid further attack.

The head that has just been beating itself against my chestbone and collarbone freezes up abruptly, though I suspect not as the effect of my pitiful attempt at manhandling. Then it jerks back completely away from my person, before the body attached to it follows suit. Maybe he thinks I am crazy, complaining so insultingly to _Morzan_ like that? In addition to so insolently pit my laughable physical strength to his at that. I certainly do. Aside from being like a human-shaped ice block, that is.

Or maybe he is preparing himself to hit me…?

But there is nowhere else to flee! I feel so, so tired, too tired to move my bottom elsewhere even to literally save my life; and besides, the chair-legs and the table-leg, though rickety as they are, does not provide me any nearest leeway to escape.

But something _soft_ suddenly brushes against my fence-like upright shins, then pushes against them more firmly. In the next moment, instead of – God forbid – his fist, the head has instead returned to my knees, draped stiffly on my knees and tense lower arms. And oddly, unbelievably, shockingly, he then pries my no-less-stiff hands from under his stiffly-bowed head, grasping them with clammy trembling hands, and putting them on his head and neck without removing his own from mine.

"Hey?" I croak, startled.

What does he mean by this? I thought he was going to be violent to me; not that I am complaining, certainly, but… Argh!

He seemed to be reluctant to let himself be touched, but now he _offered himself_ to me. _Why_? What does he mean by all these gestures and sounds?

"What do you mean by this?" I murmur. I am feeling more and more like a parrot, asking him this all the time, without answer.

And indeed, he is silent even now.

"Why did you do this?" Another tactic.

But again, silence answers me. Not even a twitch, not even a sound, let alone movement, on his part, though his muscles do not seem to become more relax, and I doubt they can be tenser than this.

At length, in the absence of any interaction and tired of being rebuffed, my fingers begin to move slightly, reflexively, filling in the lull of action and conversation like I always do whenever I am bored: ghosting along the gently-curling oily locks, twirling some when the fancy hits, digging deeper to the roots the longer he stays quiet and unmoving.

The clammy, trembling hands clamped round my wrists suddenly tighten their hold a little, before they shakily release it and vanish somewhere I do not know.

Well, it feels like a permission, so I let my fingers dig deeper into the thick, somewhat-matted mass. Faintly, in the back of my head, a part of me cheers that right now I got a new playground which is not my clothes or my bag or somebody else's clothes.

The shoulders and neck braced against my knees turn stiffer, though I thought it impossible since he was already so high-strung. But still, I cannot resist it, once my fingers got a plaything like this. My fingertips move softly, twitchily through the forest of oily, tangled locks, dragging along an invisible line on his slippery scalp. Meanwhile, I idly imagine that he is Erwin, my little – by one year – brother.

The body now glued against my folded-up legs shudders, though I do not know what the cause is.

My thumb trails along a broad, greasy, wavy-hair-curtained temple.

An urgent voice is suddenly hollering, male-sounding. But the head and upper body now draped on my shoulder and pinning my folded-up legs to my body does not move, does not even twitch like me, having been startled out of the somewhat-hypnotic activity.

The somewhat-smelly 'ragdoll' draped over me only twitches, then straightens up and moves away, when the urgent voice from outside becomes much more pleading and desperate. "He spotted them riding from the east, Sir, he said they'll soon be here, maybe some time near sundown. What ought we do, Sir?"

And at last, I hear _his_ voice again after quite a while, now sounding calm as though nothing urgent is happening, originating from only two small paces away from me, and from not far above, which means he may still be seated instead of standing up. What a commander! Sarcastically speaking, of course.

However, aside from that, I never heard him this calm and composed, this mature, this _noble_ even, this _ordinary_. "Prepare to welcome them. Have Ollich strike down the supply tent, then have him come here with all the supplies."

The voice is unperturbed and reassuring, the instructions are simple and doable; it does not surprise me much thus, to hear the other man replying in a much-calmer tone though apparently still in the outer side of the tent. "Yes, Sir. Shall we strike down our tents too, Sir?"

"Do not tax yourselves unduely," comes the answer, in the same tone. "Measure yourselves. Should you think you can do it, do it swiftly." To-the-point, matter-of-fact, brisk, cool even. So how did he turn into a gibbering wreck just now? An odd-behaving gibbering wreck, more precisely. And how could he _more than_ recover in just a second? Is he a real-life actor? I must be extra cautious about him, then? Or is this part of the madness the books purported about?

But my tongue feels stiff when I dearly wish to pose the questions at him, just as the other man – one of his soldiers, perhaps – departs with a more-heartened, "Yes, Sir!"

Our surroundings start to regain almost its previous level of noise, but inside this tent the two of us sink into an awkward silence once more.

Or maybe, awkward just for me, because I can now hear him mumble a word without any odd tone, before something hard and warm that smells faintly like a cup of some kind of tea is pressed against the back of my hand. "What?" I mumble, even more confused.

"Tea," he murmurs softly. But the elaboration that I have been waiting for never comes.

"For me?" I hate the awkward silences that we so easily get trapped in. Better an awkward, empty question than an awkward silence, for now, for me at least.

"Yes." The cup, or so I think is a cup, presses harder against my hand, which is still stubbornly linked to the other atop my knees. But he still says nothing else. He had a word for that man, and not for me. Maybe because I am a woman, lower than a man? Great…

But if somebody were to ask me, I would not know – would not be able to explain – why I suddenly got rather jealous to a total stranger. I do not even know when it started. I did not even care that much for feminism, believing it to be overdone in some aspects.

"*(1)Eeleyah." The cup shakes a little against the same bit of skin on the back of my hand.

"Huh? What did you say?" I take the cup at last, just to prevent it from possibly spilling its perfectly-fragrant content onto the floor.

Silence.

But the cup, surprisingly small and made seemingly up of glossed clay with a similarly-small round handle of the same material, is so deliciously-warm that my focus is easily distracted by it. Even just by inhaling the fragrant steam curling up to my nostrils, my head already feels lighter, which in turn improves my consciousness level and concentration.

"Whoa," I mumble, more to myself. *_Magical medicine._* The deeper I inhale and contemplate the unidentifiable fragrance of the steam, the deeper I am lulled into a peaceful, dreamlike state, which is strangely free of cluttering thoughts and vivid in its emotionless way.

His next words jar me out of the euphoric contemplation, however, quite rudely at that, though the commosion outside is louder than the offending question: "Might Orri learn that language?"

"You never answered me," I shoot back grumpily, missing the dreamlike state I was under.

"Later?" he bargains, after a pause. Then, in a softer voice he elaborates, "Should Orri survive?"

I was about to retort cheekily about his surprising ability to bargain, but now the remark and the cheeky thoughts that follow it die a sudden death.

"What do you mean?" I squawk, though not as loudly as usual. The tea has lost its charm completely now, though it still faithfully warms my hands and sends up sweet, fresh steam.

"It has been a long year," he whispers, and his voice – dare I say? – wobbles a little.

"Military campaign?" I hazard a guess.

His "Yes" is barely audible, even more than before, especially as, to the contrary, the commosion outside heightens up.

"Against?" I dread to find out…

"The rebels."

"Huh?" I gape, uncomprehending.

But I do comprehend the situation, and the horror implied underneath, at length. "So, what that man said just now…?"

"They are coming to attack us, believing that we are unprepared and already far weakened." He sounds exhausted. Alarming, when paired with the prospect of a battle near at hand.

"And you don't think you can survive?" It is my voice's turn to wobble.

He does not answer. My chest hitches. My mind rebels. The books said he would be alive till _Brom_ killed him, not a bunch of the Varden!

Huh. So callous, when I now know the subject of the topic rather personally…

Why does he behave so… so… so like _this_ to me, anyhow? He had good long words to speak to that man, and he behaved so normally. Will Selena not be angry if she found that he fancied _me_ somehow? Or maybe he was just–

"Eeleyah." Something warm and soft and smelling like freshly-baked bread bumps gently against the back of my hand now, accompanied by the same odd word.

"Will you tell me now what that means?" I retort, though mildly, as my mind is still mostly occupied by the horror that may soon visit me.

But, "No," comes the answer, followed by, "Later, please, Eeleyah?" But why does he sound pleading rather than commanding? He _could_ command people, I even heard one example just now; so why not now? Is it because I am of the female persuation? Is it because this is a personal moment and he does not wish to spend it so impersonally before his death – _no_, before the battle?

"Promise me you'll do your best to survive, then?" My voice cracks. Gah! I meant to speak casually, as if I did not care, not like this. He might interpret it differently, if like this. But–

"Orri promises Orri shall try to survive and return to Eeleyah with all Orri's might."

The words hang between us with the weight of irrevocable finality: solemn, quietly forceful.

It is _not_ a simple promise.

I shudder and let out a ragged sigh, taken aback by the presence of the vow itself and the wording that it took. "Why return to me?" I whisper. "I am nobody here."

I do not know what to feel, what to think. I was never in a wartime situation, and stand to lose somebody near to me; Indonesia has gained its independence for nearly three quarters of a century now, and stories from the veterans of the bloody fight for independence about all the blood and tears and sweat always seemed far, far away. Not even correspondence with my soldier acquaintance during the war of NATO against Iraq ever prepared me for this, as his concentration was of course focused towards his family, not me, and our conversations were usually about books that we liked to read.

"Why? Why me?" I implore softly, croaking out the words past the lump in my throat.

But he refuses to answer me, again.

If I never get any answer from him, if the vow is voided by circumstances…?

_No_! No no no no no no…

Change the topic, _now_. Do not think on _it_, no ,no.

"Is this tea really for me?"

Damn. My voice still wobbles a little.

"And this piece of bread too," he affirms, in the same soft voice that somehow screams vulnerability to me, as he pushes the bread into my empty hand. An answer, at last, though to another question entirely. "Orri apologises: Orri cannot make more. Orri needs to conserve Orri's energy, and prepare for battle."

"Why don't you eat the bread? For some energy?" I offer, though my stomach protests weakly to the decision; but he indeed shall need his energy, because he _shall_ come back here _alive_, whether he comes back for me or for his duty as a forced host. "And what's inside this tea? It smells nice." Distraction, distraction.

The back of my hand is suddenly visited by a familiar, oily, hair-curtained, strong, broad forehead for a moment, preceeded and followed by the faint sound of clothe-rustling and the feeling of movement. My heart twinges somehow on the by-now familiar gesture, though I still do not know what it means.

"A recipe from old, to clear one's mind and to warm one's body," is all that he says afterwards.

I sigh, but stifle my immediate question about the gesture, which seems to mean something sacred. "Why don't you drink it yourself, then, if the brew is that good?" I ask instead.

"Not enough for Orri," he replies, still in a tentative-sounding murmur. A moment after, something that feels like his fingertips touch the side of my hand, pushing it up a little.

I am… floored. Nothing and nobody in the books ever suggested even in the most indirect way that _Morzan_ was ever acting _selfless_ to anybody, though I figured out that he was protective to his wife and son given how rigorously he kept them secret for so long. "Why do you treat me like this?" I would like to add, "I am nothing special," but he might mistake it as something else.

He does not answer, yet again; but once more, he touches his forehead to the back of my hand.

"I'm not familiar with gestures like this, you know."

Sadly though, my persuasive ability is just as _in_effectual as in the other times, despite my graduation from a bachelor degree for International Relation Study several years ago. He still does not answer, just pushes the tips of his fingers up against the side of my hand again.

"Half and half, then?" I bargain, lifting up the bread and the cup of tea on both hands.

He lets out a soft, protesting sound.

I sigh, lowering the items again. "Are you always this stubborn?"

An affirmative sound, with the undertone of amusement.

I snort, sigh again, then lift the cup up to my lips, defeated.

He lets out the soft, happy mewl from before at that. I grumble under my breath, even as the liquid touches my lips. But at the same time I am grateful that the little bit of bantering, as darkened as it is by the prospect of permanent separation looming quite near at hand, manages to settle my unruly, unsorted emotions for now. There will be time to ponder about all this, but not now.

I tilt the cup up a little, wary of the heat that might scold my lips and tongue, warier of the possible bad taste that I might reflexively spew back out, and actually wishing to _not_ appear as an uneducated woman by gulping it or slurping it.

But it tastes _heavenly_. Rich with spices, light with mint and a leafy hint, fragrant and flowery, a little bitter but freshly so.

And even that small sip manages to warm me a little from inside, in addition to getting rid of the headache that I never noticed I had.

"Whoa," I mumble, lowering the cup. "I could get addicted to this."

And maybe for that comment, he puts his forehead against the back of my hand again.

I sigh. But, lacking any more idea to wheedle him into telling me what _exactly_ the gesture means, I substitute it with taking another sip of the heavenly brew.

The man called Morzan has turned out rather far from what _The Inheritance Cycle_ claimed him to be. I look forward to his return now, yes I do, if I am stuck here for some time, though I hope not forever.

Maybe, someday I might even call him Orri, as he seems to wish.

Someday; so he _must_ survive now. Oh God, _please…_

Footnote:  
*(1)Eeleyah:  
It is the pronunciation, actually, since our hapless character never heard of the word before: ee-lehh-yahh. The original word is "Íléi," which is something I made up in one of my original sets of languages, which is going to be put into my original novel later. The explanation will be in one of the chapters, as the character keeps asking it, so you must be a little bit more patient. But it roughly translates as "big sister," though not for someone blood-related or having a platonic relationship. It is spoken by a husband to a wife, or a man to his fiancé, or a "serious" boyfriend to his "serious" girlfriend as the case may be in modern time.


End file.
